Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
I raise it toward the ceiling and pull the damn trigger.
The recoil slams through my arm like lightning, up through my fingers, into my shoulder. I feel like they shatter. My shoulder screams in protest, and the gun nearly flies from my grip. The sound's so loud it feels like my skull cracks open.
But it works.
It fucking works.
Every single person in the ring goes still, and the pipe misses its mark.
Heads swivel toward me—toward the gun in my hand—toward the girl in the nice dress who just fired a weapon into the ceiling of an illegal fighting ring.
The big man looks up, and for one perfect moment, our eyes meet.
I cock the gun and point it straight between his eyes.
His eyes are flat. Dead. The eyes of a man who kills for money and sleeps like a baby afterward.
He runs. Drops the pipe with a clatter and bolts for the exit, the Cork kid right behind him, the fucking coward.
The spell breaks, and panic erupts like a bomb went off. People stampede toward the exits. Strong arms are around me—I step on the foot of an unknown man who screams behind me. Everyone's trampling to get away from the girl with the gun.
There's another gunshot, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except—
Cavin.
Cavin.
My heels catch on something—broken glass, something slippery, a wallet, a person, I don't fucking know. I kick off my shoes, feeling the sting of glass biting into my foot, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to him.
They part for me, too busy trying to save their own arses to block my path. The ones who aren't running just stare at me as I shove them aside.
Ciarán screams at me from behind. My phone is buzzing and ringing in my pocket.
I vault over the ropes, don't even feel my knees hit the canvas. Just scramble forward on my knees toward where Cavin collapsed in a pool of blood.
Ciarán falls beside me. I snap at him. “Grab the pipe. Stick that into a fucking shirt. We need fingerprints.”
There's so much blood. Too much. It’s soaking into the canvas and dripping through the ropes. Up close, the smell hits me—copper and salt—and my stomach heaves.
“Cavin. Cavin, please.”
My hands find his face, his neck, searching for a pulse with shaking fingers.
It's there, faint but steady, beating against my fingertips like a promise.
The cap I knit helped cushion the blow.
Relief hits me so hard I nearly collapse on top of him. “Oh thank god. Fuck.”
His eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy. There's a gash across his temple, deep and ragged, blood matting his hair and running down the side of his face.
“What are you doing here? Go home, lass.” Then he blinks, and his face goes livid. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ciarán, I'll fucking tear every single goddamn limb off whoever did this and beat you with it. Someone shot a fucking gun. Get her out of here—”
“No. I'm not going anywhere. You're hurt. Cavin,” I say, my voice steady and calm. “And… well, I shot the gun.”
“You cleared the fuckin’ room, lass.” Despite the blood and the violence, I almost smile.
“I shot it into the ceiling. I'm not here killing anybody.” My hands move over him. “Unlike that bloody sod who came after you with a fucking pipe.” I keep pressure on the wound, my cardigan already soaked through. Thirty seconds. Sixty. The bleeding has to slow.
“Fuck. Okay. Okay.” Possible internal bleeding. Concussion for certain. And the head wound is still pumping blood under my hands. “Okay, we need to move you. Can you—”
I touch his shoulder, and he makes a sound low in his throat, agonized, and I have to swallow the bile that rises in my chest. Shoulders shouldn’t look like this.
I turn to Ciarán. “Call the medic. Cavin, can you stand?”
He tries—because even half conscious, bleeding and broken, he's too stubborn to stay down. He tries to lever himself up with his good arm, wobbles, and falls heavy like a shot elephant.
“Easy. Easy.” I get under his good shoulder, taking as much of the weight as I can. Christ, he's heavy, all muscle and bone and dead weight.
Ciarán's face is white. “Ciarán, help me.”
He takes Cavin's other side, carefully avoiding the shoulder. Between us, we haul him to his feet. Cavin's legs barely hold him. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel him shaking.
“Declan’s come,” Ciarán says. “Got yer text.”
“Right. Get him to the office.”
Declan barrels toward us and helps me carry Cavin.
“Some man came at him with a pipe,” I tell Declan when he appears, grateful he can help carry him. “Hit him right in the head.”
“Ciarán says you shot the gun.” Declan's eyes flicker to me, then back to Cavin.
“Aye.”
We drag him through pure carnage. The place is wrecked—overturned tables, broken glass crunching underfoot, abandoned drinks scattered across the floor. My bare feet slip, and I don't even think about what it might be. Someone's phone is ringing. The telly's still playing, showing a football match like nothing happened.